of mental illness, of
is that you are either lucky –
to find the right help and find it fast. Or,
you become grossly accustomed to the cruel
desperation and helplessness that plague
each inhale, and tear at your lungs with every tug
of inadequacy you feel drips from your skin.
Restless, sleepless, listless…
Sheets become damp with sweat and anxiety
fills the room with a heaviness that repeated
showers will not mend. So you pretend,
Then you panic. Discontent becomes anger,
and the irrational and tearful spontaneous outburst
may not be noticeable in the other people
in your immediate space, but to you,
it feels like you let go of the reigns on a galloping
horse and there is nothing,
you can do to regain any control.
So doc says you should see a Psyche.
So you do. They medicate you.
The send you home.
You get manic.
You go back to the Psyche.
But you can only see them in two months time.
There is a skill to fobbing off a suicidal person who
has actually asked for help.
I was 8 when I sat in my first shrink office.
28 years later, I am still being the crazy that
lines the pockets of many an inadequate doctor,
I have come to resent them. I was 8 years old when
my weirdness popped out its sheep skin.
I feel trapped inside my own mind. My own body,
and most importantly – alienated from just about
everyone around me. People don’t hide disdain well.
∗I apologise for how badly this is written, but I am drugged (legally) and having a hard time focusing on anything else other than emotion.